Luke 24: 1-12 (links validated 3/25/25a)

The great African-American preacher Gardner Taylor once told a story of standing with his daughter in the back of a great, empty sanctuary. All the lights were out, making the space very dim. Far away, near the altar, the sanctuary lamp could be seen gleaming. He relates that “as we stood back in the shadows, my little girl edged closer to me and said, ‘I’m scared.’ I said ‘My dear, you need not be. This is God’s house, so let us walk forward.’” As Dr. Gardner and his daughter approached the altar and the lamp, she said, ‘I’m not so afraid now as we get closer.’” Dr. Taylor concluded by saying “yes, fear might fill us when we are far from God, but we can see, as we draw closer, the smiling face of our tender Father.”...

The night before my mother died, my father, my brother and I were in her room, keeping vigil. It was during the Covid lockdown. She had been moved from the hospital to a nursing home for her last week of life, for what they called Compassionate Care. Something had changed in my mom’s breathing or her vital signs and the staff had alerted us that the end might come soon. So our nuclear family – Mom, Dad and two kids— were together, sleeping in the same place for the first time in decades. In fact, during that night, at some point it struck me that the last time we had all slept in the same room was probably in our pop-up camper on family vacations when I was a teenager. But on this night, we didn’t sleep much. My father was in a recliner next to my mother’s bedside where he could hold her hand. It had been a hard few days for him and I knew that he was physically tired and emotionally weary. But he seemed the least ready to sleep of any of us. As the night wore on, he told stories. Stories of the 63 years of his life with my mother, including some from before my brother or I were born. Stories we had heard countless times and some brand new ones. Then he moved on to stories from his earlier life, before he met my Mom. More and more memories. They just tumbled out. One story led to another. I kept thinking that he should really get some sleep, that we all should, but the need to share the stories outweighed that for a long time...

When I was a kid Paul Harvey’s news radio show was still on (he was on the radio until 2008!). I know him best for the segments, “The Rest of the Story” where he’d tell a story but keep something vital to the tale back until almost the very end. Then he’d say, “And now you know the rest of the story.” Luke does that with the way he holds back the women’s identity and how they were received by the male disciples—or even how Peter responded with amazement but relative inaction. This great thing happened, but people were too prejudiced or wrapped up in themselves to believe the women! But it doesn’t have to be this way; Easter is our invitation to have Jesus’s resurrection begin the rest of our story, not end it.

But it’s not only in the big things that Jesus can be seen. Terry Marquardt wrote about grieving for her grandmother and remembered, My aunt was with my grandmother during the last nights of her life, when the pain in her spine was so horrible that she hadn’t slept for two days, and the medication had stopped working, and she was beginning to lose hope. It was too much to lay down, so the two of them were sitting in the living room at 2:00 in the morning when my aunt had an idea. “Mom, let’s have a party.” “How could I possibly do that,” my grandmother said, motioning to her stiff body, kept awake by the sensation that it was being ground into dust. “Let’s try,” my aunt said. And she started to sing. My aunt sang the Mennonite hymns my grandmother had taught her, songs from my grandmother’s childhood in a Mennonite farming community in northeastern Canada, songs that were sung in the fields, at their dinner tables, to greet the dawn, to end their day, on the way to church. My aunt and my grandmother sang all night long, until there was no pain, until my grandmother’s nurse woke up and tiptoed into the room. “I’ve never heard such beautiful music,” she cried...

includes lots of Greek exegesis!

a recent report from Spectrum Health Systems tells the story of a man named Jeffrey Born, aged 65, who seemed like a very unlikely person to develop an addiction, but who received heavy doses of painkillers while hospitalized for a life-threatening workplace injury. While still in the hospital, he developed an addiction to those medications, which he realized when the doctors tried to wean him off of them. The ongoing pain was so severe that it affected Mr. Born’s normal good judgment, and he began seeking other sources of pain management, eventually turning to heroin, the only thing that gave him some relief. His near-death experience came when he unknowingly injected himself with a much stronger drug – fentanyl – and immediately fell into a coma. His girlfriend, who was with him at the time, quickly called EMTs, who arrived in time to administer Narcan to save him, but the experience left him in a terrible dilemma...

An estimated 3 million people were affected by the quake, nearly one-third of Haiti’s population. More than 160,000 died. Morgues were overwhelmed by dead bodies. In the poorest country in the hemisphere, resources were simply inadequate to meet the need. In the midst of this, a man named Roger went looking for his wife, Ginette. She worked in a bank, which had completely collapsed. The building had fallen in on top of itself. For 6 days, Roger kept vigil on that site. For 6 days, he called her name. For 6 days, under 30 feet of broken concrete, in total darkness, Ginette heard him and responded “I’m alive. Help me. I’m alive. I’m alive.” Even though Roger never heard her, he convinced an excavator to clear piles of rubble. Finally, he found her, still alive. Then it took hours for professional rescuers to stabilize the rubble and extract her. They carefully lifted her out. And as her body cleared the opening, she started singing! Parched and frail, her voice still carried loudly enough to be heard through the TV camera. Buried alive for 6 days. Pinned down for 6 days. Total darkness for 6 days. But Ginette came out singing. And the words of her song were “Don’t be afraid. God is here.”...

It was a sunny Sunday late afternoon in July of 1995 and I was doing my CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education or Cruel Perverted Experience depending on how you regarded this part of Lutheran seminary training) at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. I liked doing the 24-hour-long Sunday shift as there was nobody waiting at home for me in those days and the Sunday chaplain got to lead chapel services. This was particularly pleasant Sunday for Philly in July. It wasn’t too hot—the sort of ideal afternoon for an elderly gentleman from West Philly to go out for a stroll. One such fellow did. He collapsed during his walk, was brought to the hospital, and pronounced dead shortly thereafter. A heart attack? Who knows? As on-call chaplain I was assigned the task of notifying his wife that she must come to the hospital immediately. This was pretty tricky as non-medical personnel are forbidden to disclose medical conditions, and being dead is considered a medical condition. About a quarter of an hour later, the wife arrived and was given the sad news by the attending physician. One of the nurses and I stayed with her as she viewed her husband’s body. I was, in a way, superfluous at that moment as the kind RN really gave an enormous amount of comfort to this poor, shocked woman. I think I might’ve explained some procedural steps to her and offered a prayer of comfort before a caring neighbor drove her home...

The excuse that the women seemed to be “talking nonsense” reminded me quite a bit of the recent Netflix movie Don’t Look Up starring Leonardo DiCaprio as Randall and Jennifer Lawrence as Kate. The two are astronomers who discover that an asteroid is on a collision course with Earth, and they try to get the government and the general public to do something about it. From the beginning of their attempts to share the news, Randall gets listened to and respected more than Kate, and she is painted as being too emotional and crazy. Later on, the as the general denial for the seriousness of the situation grows, Kate and Randall team up to start an information campaign online when the asteroid becomes visible from earth, telling people to “Look up!” so that they can believe (by seeing for themselves) what they are being told. The politicians start their own campaign, “Don’t look up!” At every turn, the people who know the truth are made out to be hysterical and it’s maddening to watch. I can’t help but wonder what the women felt and did after the men rejected them and the resurrection message…

We don’t really have a word in the English language that captures the emotion that I feel when I walk the streets of Belfast. There is a word that I learned a long time ago, it is a Portuguese word: “saudade.” Saudade doesn’t actually translate into English. The best translation of saudade that I have ever come across is, the presence of an absence….the presence through absence. It doesn’t appear to make any sense. How can you experience presence through absence? Something is either present or it is absent. And yet, if you speak to anyone who has ever lost someone they love and they will tell you that that person’s absence is so intense that they can actually feel them, right here, deep inside. When a mother loses a child, the pain of that absence is so intense that she can feel the child she carried in her belly right here, inside. When a lover loses their beloved, the pain of that loss is so intense that the lost love is felt here, right her deep inside. When someone we love is gone, they are still here. We see them here there and everywhere. We catch glimpses of them on the streets. Sometimes we shake our heads knowing that what we see can’t be real, and yet we know it’s real. A loved one’s absence can be very present. Saudade, through the absence we feel a presence. Saudade...

Imagine you are one of these women, reeling from what you’ve seen, or rather not seen, at that empty tomb, trying to get your heads around what you have heard. What reaction do you expect as you push open the door to the room where the others are gathered and begin to pour out your story? Surprise, joy, fear ?; but at the very least, surely interest, questions, demands for more detail. But that’s not what happens. Your extraordinary, unimaginable news is dismissed as nonsense, “an idle tale”, without so much as a moment’s thought. The Greek word Luke uses, leros, is about as insulting as it could be. It means rubbish, silliness, something too trivial even to bother with...

When the curtain opens again on the story with the sunrise on the first day of the new week, women emerge to make sense of the carnage. They intend on making meaning of it all through the ritual of preparing Jesus’s body for burial. They also demonstrated significant courage in going to the temple with materials to care for Jesus’s body, as marking oneself out as a follower of someone tortured and killed by the state is never a safe move, in any time. Through their insistence on engaging in the proper rituals of memory, even for a body destroyed by the state in a demonstration of their overwhelming authority, the women are claiming an authority of their own, a moral authority whose compassionate, sacrificial care stands in contrast to the blunt, faceless force of the state. They refused to allow the state to establish the “official” state memory of the event of Jesus’s death. Through their willingness to do so when no others—including the male disciples, it should be noted—were willing to risk the danger of stepping outside in a post-crucifixion Jerusalem, they claimed the right to remember the tomb as they experienced it. And what an experience!..

Toward the end of the Vietnam War, a shell came in and exploded a young man’s body. The only thing left were his dog tags. They sent those dog tags back home to his grieving parents and a memorial service was held. Their only child had been killed. They couldn’t come to terms with it, especially since there was no body. The grief just wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t long before the war ended. Soldiers started to come home and the prisoners of war started to return. One day, the telephone rang. The woman picked it up, and the voice on the other end of the line said, “Mother, it’s your son.” Her heart stopped. “Is this some kind of cruel joke?” she asked. “Is this some kind of a hoax?” “No. It’s really me. I’ve been a prisoner of war, and I’ve just been released. I am calling to let you know that I am alive.”...

Imagine my surprise, then, when Waka Flocka gave an interview in September 2015 in which he decried his former materialism. In his own words, he recalls an experience in which he travelled to Africa and met a teenaged boy who had never owned a pair of shoes. Ever. Waka Flocka was absolutely stunned by this. As he put it, “That’s why I stopped wearing jewelry! I started traveling, I starting seeing these [people]. I was giving my diamond chains, breaking them apart! I’m dead serious. It changed my perception on life.”

Julia Esquivel knows something of that power. She is a Presbyterian poet from Guatemala. She has worked as a teacher, principal, and pastoral social worker. Because of her work on behalf of the poor and oppressed in Guatemala, she was threatened and harassed by police and the army for many years. She narrowly escaped kidnapping, arrest and assassination. Finally, in 1980, she was forced to go into exile to save her life. From exile, she continued speaking about the suffering in her country and the hope she found in the gospel. One of her poems is called “Threatened with Resurrection”. In it, she speaks of those who have been massacred and are now dead, as if they are threatening the living with Resurrection.

Bassam Aramin was five years old when he witnessed a cousin being beaten by an Israeli soldier. He grew up hating those whom he saw as the occupiers of his homeland. As a teenager, he actively provoked Israeli troops, often throwing stones and joining in anti-Israeli demonstrations. When some of his buddies began using live ammunition against government patrols, Bassam was rounded up with them and spent seven years in an Israeli prison.

And yet, on one occasion, it was young Michael himself who found words to speak of that which first and finally gives us hope. Indeed, he could not have been more than three years old when he sat at a table with his mother and older brother, Andrew. Perhaps Michael was feeling left out. Or maybe it truly was something more when he announced that he had met Grandpa, too. "You did?!?" Sarah said, wondering at what he would say next. And Michael went on, "Yep," he replied. "I was coming down when he was going up."

A study published a few weeks ago related to Alzheimer’s treatment, indicated that researchers now know that memories do not disappear. The director of the center said, “Even if a memory appears to be gone, it is still there. It is a matter of how to retrieve it.” Even under the terrible disease of Alzheimer’s, the memories are still there. Life happens, the years pile one on another, but the memories don’t go away — they are simply submerged.

Philip was a pleasant child — happy it seemed — but increasingly aware of the difference between himself and other children. He had been born with Down Syndrome — which partly means he learned more slowly than other children. Philip attended Sunday school, a third grade class. Those 8-year-olds learned, laughed, and played together. They really cared about each other. But because of his differences, Philip wasn’t as readily accepted by his classmates. Philip didn’t want to be different. He just was. One year their Sunday School teacher planned a marvelous lesson the Sunday after Easter. He had collected ten egg-shaped containers that panty hose sometimes comes in. Each child received one. Then the children were assigned to go out in the church yard and find a symbol for new life, put it in the “egg,” and bring it to the classroom. They would then mix up all the eggs, open them up, and share what they had found...

Recently, a colleague showed me a video she’d found on YouTube, a snippet from Yann Arthus-Bertrand’s 2015 documentary “Human.” It’s a stark, face-the-camera, tell-the-tale scene. The narrator is Francine, an elderly French woman. A child in a Nazi concentration camp, Francine recounts an experience with another woman. The other woman’s name is never revealed. I won’t spoil Francine’s memories—take a few moments to watch it—other than to say one person, with something as insignificant and magnificent as chocolate, was transformed through a simple gift and gesture. In the midst of hell on earth, there was a glimpse of heaven. In so many forms, Easter dawns...

I am a big believer in shaking things up and approaching ideas through an unexpected perspective. Like the billboard I saw in Minnesota: It read, at the top, "Minnesota Cremation Society". In the middle was a photo of a casket, and underneath, it read, "Think outside the box". This year, let's bring a fresh approach to Easter by using an unexpected perspective: Major League Baseball. Baseball has much to teach us about Easter...

Eugene O'Neill, great American playwright and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature, wrote a play called Lazarus Laughed. The play tells the story of Lazarus after Jesus brought him back from death. As Lazarus is the first person to return from the realm of the dead, people want to hear from him, to hear his story. They want to know, "What was it like, Lazarus?" In his post-death life, Lazarus does have things to say. Among them, he tells people there is no death. But more than what he says, it is what he does that convinces people. Lazarus laughs.

I want to finish by affirming the value of each and every small story, your story and my story. The story of our loving and our living, sharing and growing God’s love and God’s action in our world. Christ our life, you are alive, in the beauty of the earth, in the rhythm of the seasons, in the mystery of time and space. Alleluia Christ our life, you are alive, in the tenderness of touch, in the heartbeat of intimacy, in the insights of solitude. Alleluia Christ our life, you are alive, in the creative possibility of the dullest conversation, of the dreariest task, the most threatening event. Alleluia Christ our life, you are alive to offer re-creation to every unhealed hurt, to every deadened place, to every damaged heart. Alleluia You set before us a great choice.

Theologian and preacher Peter Gomes has commented that at Easter, preachers sound like attorneys, producing evidence and arguing from reason and logic that the resurrection is possible, even if it is unbelievable. I don't feel like a lawyer today, so much as a witness to grace and life, another woman at the tomb. The evidence for resurrection I have is this: I have seen the captives freed and the brokenhearted made whole again. I've been a witness to lives that have been entombed in despair and sorrow, then move on with determination and vigor. I have seen the poorest of the poor celebrate and dance and refuse to be defined by death and cowardice. I've watched the lame be healed by the love of community and I am praying that one day soon, I will see the soldiers lay down all weapons and take up plowshares, and our leaders gather around the table to talk peace instead of this terrible war...

A little over twenty years ago now a book was published that carried the title Morning-Glory Babies. It contained the story of a community of Christians who took up a ministry with babies infected with the AIDS virus. The author wrote, “From the perspective of the media, death is the essence of the story about our children. ‘A Moment of Sunshine in the Shadow of Death,’ was a typical headline from newspaper stories about us. Upon finishing a story about the arrival of a baby girl named Melissa, one television producer asked if his network could have an exclusive on ‘The End of the Story.’” The end of the story. That is the way the world sees it, when they bother to look. But the founder of that AIDS ministry saw things through Easter-eyes. And he wrote of his deep frustration: “For me, ‘the story’ is that Melissa is beginning to walk, or that she sings duets with little David in an unknown language only babies understand.”...

("The story is told about a smart young college student who announced to a group of friends one day that he would believe nothing that he could not understand. Another student, who lived on a nearby farm turned to him and said: 'As I was driving into campus today, I passed a field in which some sheep were grazing. Do you believe it?'...")

In Russia a few years ago a railway worker accidentally locked himself in a refrigerator car. Unable to escape or to attract attention, he resigned himself to his fate. As he felt his body becoming numb he took a pencil out of his pocket and recorded the story of his approaching death. He scribbled on the walls of the car: " I am becoming colder... still colder... I am slowly freezing... half asleep - these may be my last words. When the car was opened the man was found dead, but the temperature of the car was only about 56 degrees. Officials found that the freezing mechanism was out of order and that there was plenty of fresh air available. Although there was no physical reason that they could find for the man had died. It was concluded that he had died because he had believed that he would die...

Juan Melendez, raised in Puerto Rico, went to prison in Florida in 1984. He was convicted of murder and sent to death row. Juan had an alibi witness to attest that he was nowhere near the murder but alas, the witness was African –American and not believed. Juan was scared to go to prison for something he said he did not do. There were rats and roaches in his cell. The guard called him a fool because he could not read or write. The prisoners not on death row supplied the prisoners on death row with items to help them commit suicide. Juan gave it great consideration, but prayed to God who told him “ I control the time of your death- not you. Hang in there. Do not give up.” So Juan waited in misery for the time of his execution. Death row inmates in Florida do not receive communion because as the guards said “they’re already condemned to Hell.” I Heard Juan Melendez speak three weeks ago in a Catholic Church in Rio Rancho. In prison he learned to read and write. The other condemned inmates taught him. Eventually, after almost 18 years, his lawyer made a last ditch appeal. Juan said “I was not saved by the system but in spite of the system” A taped confession by the real killer was presented and the prosecutor dismissed the case against Juan Melendez. On the day of his release, January 3, 2002 the guards called him Mr. Melendez. The whole death row facility clapped their hands upon his release. CNN was there. Juan told us “I didn’t say I wanted to go to Disney World. I told them I wanted to see the moon and the stars. I wanted to hold a baby, feel the green grass, see a beautiful woman, look at a mountain for hours.” In prison Juan learned to love, to forgive, to have compassion. It was faith in God and the support of his mother that kept him going. Juan hopes to see the death penalty abolished. He believes New Mexico will be the first state to do so...

When was the last time you managed to pull off a good surprise for someone else? To be honest I'm not the best in that department. But one time I succeeded. It was before Karen and I were married, and before her sister was to have a baby. The plan was to surprise them both with a combination wedding/baby shower. With instructions firmly in mind, my brother-in-law and I drove off one Sunday after church with our spouses in tow. Each spouse was given just enough information to get by. Each was told we were stalling for time; time for guests to arrive - guests for the other sister's shower. All during lunch and the ensuing miniature golf game, knowing glances were exchanged between Karen and me and my brother-in-law, and between her sister and her husband and myself. When we finally arrived and saw that all the guests’ cars were not even hidden a bit, knowing glances changed to question marks as each whispered what a sloppy job this "surprise" shower was. My brother-in-law and I bit our tongues. No attempt was made to hide a thing. It was so obvious that when both sisters approached the room they pushed each other in. "Surprise!" They were prepared for the inevitable (that a surprise was intended for the other). But they returned with the unexpected, (that they themselves were a part of the surprise)...

["We are often too blasé when it comes to Easter. The minister says "Christ is Risen" and like Pavlov's dogs we respond, "Risen indeed" and we say it with some enthusiasm and conviction, perhaps, but nevertheless we often say it as though it's the most natural, logical, obvious thing in the world...")

(includes several quotes)

("As we were making our way back out of the funeral home, the funeral director stopped me to ask if I would like to see Annie. Although I did not know her well, still I had known Annie for probably thirty years. She looked as much like herself as one who has died, can, in fact. It was as we paused there that the funeral director drew my attention to her hands. And to be sure, they were not 'done' yet --- they were bruised and discolored --- not at all the hands of one who is alive...")

Jerry Norton (not his real name) was a thirty seven year old young man on the fast track to stardom in his Chicago based company. He was the father of two children and husband of a wonderful woman. Jerry was a nice guy, but a driven guy. He worked day and night, ate too much, slept too little and drank too much. He burned the proverbial candle at both ends. (Trying to light it in the middle as well!) He had a heart attack which he barely survived and found himself in the coronary care unit of the hospital. Six days into his cardiac rehabilitation program, his doctor came to his room to find Jerry dictating a letter to his secretary and giving her a list of phone calls to make and appointments to schedule. The doctor summoned Jerry's wife, children and the hospital chaplain and then read the riot act to his patient. Didn't he know what he was doing to himself and his family? Didn't he know better than to eat wrong, drink too much, go without sleep and never get any exercise? Do you know something? Knowledge was not the problem. Jerry's response to his doctor, his family and the chaplain was a repentant, "Yes, I know." A change in perspective comes from more than knowledge, it comes from the knowledge translating into experience...

("The thing which struck me most though, from our readings and poem tonight, was what Easter might have smelt like. Smell is one of the most evocative of the senses, almost impossible to describe, but unmistakeable and powerful in its ability to bring back memories, and conjure up moods and associations. What did Holy Week and Easter smell like?...")

("You may be wondering why in the world the title of this week's reflection is somewhat reminiscent of George Romero's classic horror/zombie film, Dawn of the Dead. Yes, it is quite a stretch in one sense, but do read on because there's method to my madness....")

Here is just one example of someone whose life is changing. Today, he is a professor at Beeson Divinity School, and a former professor of history at the University of Denver, and USC. But Dr. Lyle D. Dorsett wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for a big fact he experienced on an Easter dawn several years ago. He tells about it in these words: “I opened my eyes to see the Sun shining on the gravestones. It was about 6:00 a.m. The birds were singing in celebration of a new day. For a moment I wasn’t certain where I was or how I got there. But then it came back to my foggy mind. The night before, I had been drinking in a bar. When it closed I took a six-pack of beer to go. Looking down on the front floor of my car I saw two beers left in the carton. Apparently I had pulled onto this unpaved road along the edge of the cemetery to finish my beer and sleep. Without pondering anything more than my powerful thirst and the cotton in my mouth, I reached down and pulled up a beer, popped it open, and drank deeply. Before finishing the can I started crying uncontrollably...

("In the first of the CS Lewis stories, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, Aslan the lion lies dead, and the two girls, Susan and Lucy Pevensie, are the only ones to be there with him as he dies. They stay, much longer than they should, and just as they are leaving, the stone table cracks in two - and when they turn around, Aslan is gone...")

Max Lucado in a book entitled When God Whispers Your Name (Word publishing 1994) tells the story of a honeymoon disaster that he read about. The newlyweds had arrived at the hotel late at night with high hopes. They had reserved a large room with romantic amenities. That's not what they found. The room that they discovered was skimpy. It was a tiny room with no view, no flowers, and a cramped bathroom. It had no bed. Just a foldout sofa with a lumpy mattress and sagging springs. It was not what they hopes for. Consequently, they had a terrible night. The next morning the sore-necked groom stormed down to the manager's desk and vented his anger. After listening patiently for awhile, the clerk asked, "Did you open the door in your room?" The groom admitted he hadn't. He returned to the suite and opened the door he thought was a closet. There complete with fruit baskets and chocolates was as a spacious room. There before them was a comfortable bed instead of lumpy sofa, a curtain -framed window rather than a blank wall; a fresh breeze in place of stuffy air.; an elaborate rest room, not a tight toilet. They had missed it. It was a door away. A door they didn't open because they thought that is went nowhere...

("A family was watching the movie The Greatest Story Ever Told on television one night. One of the children was deeply moved and completely enthralled by the events of Jesus life. As Jesus struggled toward Calvary under the weight of the cross, tears rolled down her cheeks. She was absolutely silent and still until Jesus had been taken down from the cross..." and other illustrations)

I love the story told by Tony Campola about his home church where preaching is a really important event. On one Good Friday there were no less that seven preachers preaching back to back. Tony said after he preached he was on such a high because the congregation had given him such encouragement. He basked in all the hallelujahs and cries of joy. After he finished preaching he didn't think that there was anything else to say. Then his old pastor got up and stood the crowd on it's ear just one phrase, which he kept working over. He started softly " It's Friday, but Sunday's coming". One of the deacons yelled, "Preach Bother! Preach!" That was all the encouragement he needed. He came on louder as he said, "It was Friday and Mary was crying her eyes out. The disciples were runnin' in every direction, like sheep without a shepherd. But that was Friday, and Sunday's coming!" People in the congregation were beginning to pick up the message. Women were waving their hands in the air and calling gently, "Well, well" Some men were yelling, "Keep going" He kept going. He picked up the volume a little bit more, "It Friday. The cynics were lookin' at the world and saying, "As things have been , so shall they be. You can't change anything in this world: you can't change anything." But those cynics didn't know it was only Friday! Sunday's coming! He just getting more forceful as he went along. "It was Friday and on Friday Pilate thought he had washed his hands of a lot of trouble. The Pharisees were struttin' around, laughing and pokin' each other in the ribs. They thought they were back in charge of things, but they didn't know that it was only Friday! Sunday's coming! He just kept working that phrase until I don't thing that they could have stood it any longer. At the end of the message he just yelled, "IT"S FRIDAY!" and all five hundred people in the church yelled back with on accord, "BUT SUNDAY'S COMING"...

(includes in-depth analysis of "perplexed, afraid and amazed")

Tom Long, has a similar example, in one of his sermons (he got it from another great preacher, Frederick Buechner). It's not about the resurrection per se, but rather, about the existence of God – another article of faith that's impossible to prove. What if – Long wonders – God were to re-arrange the stars in the sky one night, to spell out the words, "I REALLY EXIST"? The reaction, Long says, would be dramatic: "Churches would spill over into football stadiums, crime would cease, wars would suddenly stop, an uncanny hush would fall over the world – for a while. But, then, there would be the message in the stars night after night, month after month, year after year. Every night the sky would proclaim "I REALLY EXIST," and it would become a normal part of nature." What we really need, Long continues, is something more: "...what we really want in our deepest need is not proof that there is a God somewhere who exists or even scientific evidence that a resurrection happened some time ago in history. What we need is a God who is right here, knee-deep in the mud and mire of human existence – a risen Christ who comes to us every day to give life and hope. That is a God who comes not in evidence but in the relationship of trust we call faith."...

One of the first Easters of my ministerial career began with a blizzard. I was still a student pastor, and we had arranged to have an ordained pastor come to serve communion. There was a question if he would be able to make it through the storm. To add to the misery, shortly after breakfast, we received word of the death of a woman, one of the 12 brothers and sisters who were members of the congregation. Between the storm, the probable absence of the minister, and the death, I began to anticipate my wife and me having a worship service by ourselves. I stumbled from the parsonage to the church to be sure it would be warm in case anyone should come, then fought my way back for another cup of coffee. This was a blizzard--I could not see the road from the parsonage. At church-time, I entered the back room, and there were all the teenagers who composed the choir. Eventually the ordained minister stumbled in and I marveled at his dedication to have fought that storm for more than fifty miles... The organist slipped out to begin her prelude while the choir, the minister and I consoled ourselves that perhaps at least a few people had come to the service. Then the organ volume lifted and we began to march in. There in the front row sat the husband and children of the deceased woman; they had driven 30 miles. Around them were aunts, uncles and cousins and they were so packed in the nave that some of them had to stand. Never before had there been so many people in a worship service there.... The organist moved into the first hymn,"Jesus Christ is risen today, alleluia!"In the front row, singing as loudly as any, with tears streaming down their faces,were the husband and children of the deceased woman..... The custom was they were used to coming forward to receive communion at the rail. We bent the rules so that I could help serve. The last man I reached with the wine was the new widower, whose children ranged from elementary to high school in age. My eyes must have been asking a question, for as he replaced the communion glass, he quietly took hold of my arm and whispered,"She has gone home, and we thought we should come home today too, especially today.".. Outside the storm raged on, but no one minded for inside the resurrection was being celebrated...

I know a man called Jesus, Who from His grave arose, On that first Easter morning To vindicate our souls. He bore the cross of Calvary And shed His blood for you and me. He paid a debt He didn't owe, As through His blood forgiveness flowed. Then, from His crucifixion, Our eternal life was formed And, through His resurrection, That first precious Easter born...

("Tony Campolo tells a wonderful story about a friend of his who had to take a bus trip across central India. He was in one of those old-model buses that should have been retired a decade ago. it was seemingly held together with string and glue. As is often the case with buses in Third World countries, this bus was packed, not only with people, but with packages, furniture, and just about every kind of domesticated animal..." and other illustrations)

“[He] was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that…[he] was dead as a door-nail….[of that] there is no doubt. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.” For those of you that are at all bookish, you will probably recognize the sentences I just quoted as the opening lines from Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, with Jacob Marley’s name dropped out. But the situation is the same, and we must not allow ourselves to be distracted from the sober, somber business of the tomb and the body just because we think we know what’s really going on, or because we think we know what the story’s really about...

Larry Phillips tells about a trip to a restaurant with his 6-year-old son. The boy asked if he could say grace, and of course his father said “OK.” They bowed their heads. “God is good, God is great. Thank you for the food, and I would thank you even more if Mom gets us ice cream for dessert. And liberty and justice for all! Amen.” There were chuckles from surrounding patrons, but one woman said rather sternly, “That’s what’s wrong with this country. Kids today don’t even know how to pray. Asking God for ice cream! Why, I never!” At this the boy burst into tears. “Did I do wrong, Dad? Is God mad at me?” Dad assured him he had done just fine, that God was certainly not mad. Just then an elderly man approached the table. He winked at the boy and said, “I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer!” “Really?” the boy asked. “Cross my heart.” And then, in a theatrical whisper, the man tipped his head toward the woman who had made the remark. “Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes.” Well, of course there was ice cream for dessert. The six year old stared at his for a moment, then without a word picked up his bowl, walked over to the woman who had made the remark and set it down in front of her. “Here,” he smiled, “this is for you. Ice cream is good for the soul sometimes, and my soul is good already!”